Contingency Planning
by cHiMer
Summary: Picking a fight with the most dangerous paramilitary organization on Earth was a grave mistake. But even when faced with their own imminent destruction, a secret society has to keep planning ahead.
1. Contingency Planning

They failed. Centuries of preparation, careful work, plans within plans that would take decades to bear fruit - all gone, all become ash, all snatched from his very grasp on the eve of ultimate victory.

During a better time, when he had more _control_, the impeccably dressed man occupying the room's most luxurious armchair would stare for hours into the scarlet projection of a world full of little, poor, ignorant people that would forever remain oblivious to the true nature - and true glory - of their puppeteers. But alas, the chaff - so small-minded, so powerless, so... irrelevant - would survive, and they would not.

It took a will and mind of titanic strength to resist the urge to panic. Unsurprisingly, the man in the armchair was one of such mind and willpower, having reached his position through wits alone. And right now, he was straining these wits to their limits, furiously processing countless memories, plans, projections and outcomes in an attempt to figure out just where had things gone so horribly wrong. Composed he might have been, but even he felt his control on his bruised ego slip. He hated that. Someone of his position always had to be in control, _always_.

Brooding was not going to do much good, and yet what he was doing right now amounted to exactly that.

"Director."

There were many before him, but he was only the third to be called that - and only that, for his true name was long forgotten even in the highest echelons of his organization, painted over with several dozen fake identities and mysterious disappearances. 'Director' was the only form of address that he had left, and all that he felt was ever needed. Even though the spacious room around him suggested an atmosphere of unnecessary opulence, EXALT would not have reached its current standing in the world without keeping utility in mind as well. In fact, this argument of form over function - or rather, contentment versus further ambition - had managed to split the organization but a century before. Like the two incidents of internal strife before it, it ended rather amicably. After all, this was an organization of men of significantly higher than average intelligence, and most of them understood the benefits of cooperation and compromise. The ones who did not or would not see the error of their ways still served the common goal in the end - only as an example.

The Director focused his gaze for a second on the glass case containing the skull of one such overly ambitious fellow. Usually he did it for sport, a bit of amused satisfaction at seeing the last of his predecessors to use the laughably self-aggrandizing title of 'Master' laid so low in the end. The two other victims of EXALT's rather harsh peer review procedure were forcibly retired in a more intact state, their shameful legacy instead being represented by their ornate helmets and personal arms.

Right now, however, the Director could not help but feel that the skull was laughing back at him. For all the setbacks his unrestrained ambition inflicted upon the organization, it was still not as bad as its imminent, outright destruction during the Director's own reign.

"Director," the voice from behind him addressed him again, attempting to snap him out of sinking into historical recollections.

With a slight hand gesture, he invited the two men trying to get his attention to approach and speak.

The latter promptly emerged from the shadows to take their place at the Director's sides. The blonde man who had been speaking earlier still adhered to the organization's informal dress code - casual business attire with an orange tie - but the sight of a ballistic vest, tactical webbing and disturbing skin discoloration around the wrists reminded the Director that the time for subterfuge and backroom dealings was long over. Whether he liked it or not, EXALT was in a state of open war, for the first time in its millennial history.

"Our contacts at NORAD have reported an unidentified military aircraft that has just crossed the southern border. The intercepted radio traffic refers to it as 'Big Sky'. It's headed directly for this facility," the operative reported, his voice calm and even despite delivering such horrible news.

"Not at all surprising, Mr. Jones," the Director replied quietly. "If anything, I expected them to show up at our doorstep sooner."

And this war EXALT found itself in - it lost. Hundreds of agents just like the one reporting to him - carefully raised, trained and indoctrinated over the span of many decades, some being able to proudly trace their descent from entire dynasties that had served the organization for centuries; skilled workers, successful entrepreneurs, model family men and, most importantly, priceless and fanatically loyal operatives - all dead, all trampled into dust by what by all accounts should have been a joke venture nobody even took seriously. Not until it started fielding genetically modified troops and horrifying mechanized abominations, at least. By then it was too late to pull strings from behind the scenes - the resulting monster answered to no single authority, and responded to all attempts to shut it down with lethal force.

Clearly, it was time for the Director to reassess his own and the organization's priorities. Or rather, it would be the time, had they any left.

"Director," Jones - an assumed name, of course - voiced a question. "What is our plan B?"

"Plan B?" the older man asked, amused. "I assume that means we have a plan A?"

"We have around eighty elite agents in this building, Director. I do believe that we stand a reasonable chance of fending off an attack on our own base and on our own terms."

"No, we don't," the Director cut him off rather harshly. "Every time we engaged them in open combat - we failed. If they are coming here, they will be bringing the best they got - and then some. I have no doubt they're bringing the girl with them, too."

"Do you think they will try to use her... unique ability, Director?" asked the other agent, outwardly nearly indistinguishable from his counterpart save for the lack of combat gear and signs of genetic tampering.

"Maybe, maybe not, Mr. Williams. The question should be - do we even want to risk the slightest possibility of mass mind control of the personnel in this facility? I think not."

"Then... we evacuate? Hide?" Jones tilted his head. "This isn't how we work. With all due respect."

"It's a tough choice, Mr. Jones, and I agree that it goes against every fiber of our respective beings. But consider it this way - what do we do, even we win? Our base will be in ruins. Our funds will be spent on trying to rebuild. They will be back to hit us again, and next time they might send a cruise missile in place of the troops.

"In the middle of the city, Director?" Williams raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"_'Collateral damage is regrettable, but not discouraged,'_ as one of their more recent tactical manuals has so eloquently put it. I would not put it past them to try. Even if they don't, the end result will be the same - ruin, oblivion, more valuable operatives such as yourself dead and our millennial dream shattered for good. We are not _them_, gentlemen, and I'm proud of it. We are above recruiting random rabble to throw into the grinder."

One problem the Director has always noted in his young subordinates was that they were highly idealistic, fanatical even... and arrogant, perhaps. Would this hubris become their undoing in the end?

"A last stand will get us nowhere. Yes. I understand, Director."

"_We_ understand," Jones corrected his comrade.

No, perhaps it would not. There was hope yet - if not for EXALT, then for its people.

"I am glad that you see it my way, gentlemen. Now, there is something rather unpleasant I have to ask of you, Mr. Jones."

"Just name it and I'll get it done," Jones replied with unsurprising eagerness. He, like the rest of them, was rather unused to the sight of the Director being out of cards to play. It would put him at ease if the Director could at least pretend to know what he was doing. Even if pretend was all he could do.

"Gather a group of... volunteers. No more than twenty. They are to stay behind and fight the attackers off for however long they're able. Let me stress that again: volunteers. I will not order anyone to their deaths again."

"Nineteen volunteers, Director," Jones immediately answered in a manner that made it clear he had made up his mind.

"Eighteen," his partner stated with just as much resolve.

The Director shook his head. "Nineteen, Mr. Williams. I applaud your bravery, but your talents lie elsewhere. This is not your battle."

"But-" Williams attempted to object – a first, as far as the Director could recall.

"I know full well what you want to say, Mr. Williams. You have yet a part to play... one that could enable our ideals, our dream to survive us. This part does not take place here."

A rather unsubtle form of flattery, the Director scolded himself in his mind, but it worked. Williams' dissent was nipped in the bud. Besides, what he had said was mostly true.

"What might that be, Director?"

"It's... a fairly long exposition. Mr. Jones, how much time do we have before the enemy force arrives?"

"Approximately forty to forty-five minutes, Director."

"Slightly less than I'd like to say farewell, but alas. Beggars can't be choosers. First things first, Mr. Jones. Wipe all our databases save the financial ones, destroy all personnel documentation and do the same for all research and intelligence assets we cannot evacuate. And," the next part came out noticeably strained, even the Director being in obvious pain over having to let go of the EXALT's greatest achievements, "that includes the gene labs and the workshops. Leave them nothing. I will wait for you to return. You deserve to know what this is all for."

The command center filled up with the skyscraper's inhabitants as Jones relayed the orders over his earpiece, both field operatives and civilian personnel scrambling to fulfill what would become their last orders in the critically short timeframe.

Some time passed as the Director watched Jones pick nineteen agents out of eighty, who had, naturally, all volunteered to stay behind. Only after he was done and had returned to the Director's side did the latter finally begin to divulge what would become his last grand scheme.

"Humor me, Mr. Williams. What does the name of our adversary mean?"

The agent answered readily, if a bit unsure as to the implications of the question. "It stands for 'Extraterrestrial Combat Unit', Director."

"Very good. I believe it states their purpose in this world clearly enough. They were created to fight the alien threat - let us go with their perception for a while - and fight they do. I must admit that they do it rather well. Perhaps they will even win."

"Win?" Jones asked. "Just what would be a 'win' in their books?"

"It's a fairly nebulous objective, as neither they nor us know the true nature of what their enemy actually is. If they lose, our master plan will proceed unimpeded, albeit our current predicament will certainly affect our ability to fully implement it. But let us assume that through some fluke or the other, they manage to destroy, rout or otherwise incapacitate the entire alien expeditionary force. A well-deserved victory that shall be, but what then?"

"They'll be left without a purpose," Williams immediately took a guess. The Director smiled. The young man had it in him.

"Spot on. Of course, they will try to position the organization as far too valuable to disband, and it will persist in some form. But it will be a paper tiger by that point. Purposeless, penniless and utterly harmless."

"A perfect time for us to resurface," Jones guessed.

The Director shook his head. "So it would seem, but no. There won't be that many of us left to resurface, Mr. Jones, and as soon as they catch a glimpse of even a shadow of our former self, they'll be revitalized and pull off a repeat performance of what they are about to do here today. No. Our name is not a fancy abbreviation, it states our purpose for all to see. To exalt. To transcend. To evolve. Each of us who survives this day shall become a new order unto himself. It will take us decades, perhaps even a century or two instead of mere years like we planned, but humanity will be uplifted. And we and our successors, direct or spiritual, will be back where we belong, steering those we watch over into this new, glorious future. No-no," the Director snapped out of his grand speech to stop a passing agent reaching for the glass case with the ancient artifacts. "Leave those. Leave the art, too. We must leave the impression that we were taken by surprise and wiped out. And our financial records too, remember to preserve those. We will not be able to make any use of them ever again, anyway."

"Speaking of leaving, Director," Williams started, "it is time for you to leave as well."

The Director sighed. "I suppose you are right. Help me up."

Both agents rushed to the Director, Jones gently helping the old man up from his chair while Williams handed him his walking cane and overcoat.

Perhaps the Director had made another mistake. His time had long since come and gone. Perhaps he should not have remained at his post for as long as he did. This wasn't quite the passing of the torch he had planned for the new blood.

But first came the other agent, one who would stay and fight to the end. Turning to the gene-modded operative, the Director offered him the firmest handshake he could afford in his frailty. "Farewell, Mr. Jones. I regret not having been a better leader, so that you could live on. For what it's worth, I promise your sacrifice will not go to waste."

Jones said nothing as he took the offered hand into his own, his solemn face doing it for him. The Director's failing sight mercifully failed to notice the suspicious glint in the corners of the agent's eyes, at least, as the realization that he was sending off a trusted, loyal subordinate and nineteen others like him to their deaths left him devastated already.

With a heavy heart, the two men turned away from each other, Jones going along to organize the defenders, while the Director and Williams entered the elevator.

"There will be a new beginning, Director," the younger man attempted to console his superior. "You just said so yourself."

"I certainly have, Mr. Williams," the Director grinned weakly. "But I have also just finished leading our ancient order to utter ruin. Are you sure I'm the man to trust?"

"Absolutely," the agent spared no time for answering. "The insinuation that I could believe otherwise is, frankly, insulting."

"My apologies then," the Director said, still grinning. "I said earlier, Mr. Williams, that you still have a part to play. But I did not tell you about your part, specifically."

The elevator reached the ground floor of the skyscraper, and not a moment too soon. A distant explosion upstairs rattled the entire building. Just to mark that it wasn't random, a pre-recorded message sounded throughout the building via the PA system.

_"Attention: unauthorized access detected. Security breach in progress. All personnel, report to security stations."_

"So they're here," the Director sighed as Williams ushered him towards the exit. The lobby was already empty, non-combat personnel having all evacuated already. The Director wondered how many would survive. Hopefully the aliens would steal the spotlight back soon enough and let the remaining cells cover up their tracks in peace. Hopefully. Few victors passed up an opportunity for a witch-hunt.

_"Attention: hostile forces have breached the facility, repeat: hostile forces have breached the facility. Enact security protocol: Alpha."_

Williams would have rolled his eyes at the pretentiousness of that last part if the situation wasn't so dire. Security protocol Alpha was basically a fancy term for 'throw everything and everyone we have at them'.

The younger agent helped his superior get inside the nondescript black sedan parked practically at the front door. Even through the rain, he could already hear the sounds of gunfire coming from several hundred feet above, prompting him to hurry up and get behind the wheel himself.

"You see, Mr. Williams," the Director resumed speaking as they drove off, "you are one of our precious few agents with a respectable and visible public profile, no to mention your own considerable personal assets. Your father was quite the businessman, and so far you have not shamed his legacy. When the time comes - and only you will know when that time comes - you will use those assets and your own remarkable skills to pull a reversal of what has happened today."

"I... how?" Even with his considerable acumen, Williams was left clueless by the enigmatic statement.

"Remember all the talk we've had about what would become of our would-be killers after the war?"

The sudden flash of realization nearly made Williams swerve into the oncoming lane. "Of course! With CFN withdrawing support, they'll turn to private funding!"

"I knew I chose right," the Director noted with subtle pride. "I'm sure that by the time the events I predicted will occur, you'll be able to seize control – perhaps partial, but hopefully full – of the entire organization."

"But what then?" Williams asked the obvious question.

"You will maintain it, of course," the Director stated. "Even if the aliens lose, they will be back sooner or later. They weren't a pleasure to negotiate with, given our unfortunate experience with the Furies, and I imagine next time they'll skip straight to the shooting. Whether we like or not, the idea behind such a... militant agency turned out to be a sound one, and perhaps we should have supported it instead of trying to fight it. Such a defense force will have to be retained, or, in the worst case scenario, re-established. And in the times of peace... I'm sure you'll be able to mold it into something furthering our goals. Our greatest enemy will, for all intents and purposes, replace us in our eternal quest for safeguarding and uplifting humanity. Eventually."

"It will be under close scrutiny, Director. Who is to say I won't end up in the position of a donor without much say in actually running things?"

"The world will be a different place by then. Even you would be surprised to discover just how much work we used to do to keep the status quo from unraveling at the seams and unleashing chaos. Obviously, we are not in a position to do so any longer. But during chaos, there is always great opportunity. Use it to your advantage, and you will have control. Could you pull over here?"

Nodding, Williams steered the car towards the sidewalk of an empty street. His questioning look at the Director after coming to a full stop was met with a solemn sigh.

"Now I'm afraid, Mr. Williams, this is where we part ways. I have done my part for EXALT, for better or, more likely, worse, and my time is running out. I will no longer restrict you in any way. However you choose, or even if you choose to uphold our legacy at all is now up to you. Seek out the others who might have survived this day if you can, but as for me..."

"Director..."

"...I have failed you, Jones and many others. I am afraid I'd be nothing but a burden to our - no, to _your_ operation, so this is where I get off. Please, do not bother looking for me."

"It... I understand, Director," Williams finally nodded. "It might take me years, but I will find a way."

The beaten old man once known as the Director smiled for the last time as he shook hands with his last friend on Earth. "Make no mistake, I deeply regret that I will not live long enough to see it. But I believe I have left what remains of our legacy in the most capable hands I know. Goodbye and best of luck in your future endeavors, Mr. Williams," the Director said as he climbed outside, not without some difficulty. "We will not meet again, but I will be watching you for however long I'm able."

Somehow, the agent - or ex-agent, rather, was able to instantly see some subtle change that transformed one of the most powerful men on Earth into a unassuming senior slowly walking away into the Toronto night. When the old man finally vanished from sight, Williams shifted his gaze onto the rearview mirror.

The fire on top of the skyscraper was but speck from this distance, but to Williams it looked like a ranging inferno consuming all he had ever accomplished and believed.

Minutes started to stretch into hours as he sat there with ignition off, nothing but the sound of falling droplets and working windshield wipers to keep him company as he watched his life's purpose burn. A part of him kept hoping for a miracle, that Jones or someone else was going to call him to tell that they've held out, and they would all return to the base and come up with a _proper_ plan, not one that rested solely on his shoulders.

It did not happen. The fires kept burning, and he kept watching them until the emergency services, still working despite the constant alien attacks, finally put them out. He felt like he had just witnessed a Viking funeral of his entire family. However, there was no time for proper mourning.

F. Denman Williams had a lot of work to do.


	2. Afterword: 2035

The man extinguished his cigarette in front of the posh restaurant across the street, eyeing the establishment with a mix of resentment and suspicion. Such blatant display of luxury was irritating to many, but he actually found himself offended in a variety of new and exciting ways – not in the least because his financial woes made him dreadfully incompatible with the services provided inside.

It could also be a trap, but he dismissed that possibility right after considering it. He would not stoop so low as to develop a sense of unwarranted self-importance.

"Just like we planned - go in a minute after me and grab a table nearby," he told his companion, who purposely remained outside of the illumination provided by the lone, flickering streetlight. The shadowy figure nodded without saying another word.

Steeling himself, the man crossed the street and walked straight into the restaurant. He momentarily squinted in annoyance at the blinding blue flash of a weapons scanner installed in the doorway – the damn things very near ubiquitous in 2035, and for a good reason, but that didn't mean he had to like them.

It also meant he had to come unarmed, which did not help his disposition one bit.

The head waiter was just as suspicious as he was, considering that the visitor blatantly ignored the establishment's dress code, but opened up with a welcome anyway, "Good evening sir, may I help y-"

One glare in return made him nearly choke on his own words. To his immense relief, another voice from behind him defused the awkward situation.

"Mr. Bradford! Over here, if you will," a clean-shaven, blonde man in an obviously very expensive business suit with an orange tie called out to the new arrival.

Ignoring the stupefied staff member, Bradford proceeded to take a seat at the man's table.

"I'm very glad you could make it, Commander. I know, this is a very unseemly choice of a meeting place, but they have decent security here."

"_Acting_ Commander," Bradford corrected him, his voice noticeably gruff and tired in contrast to the jovial disposition of his contact.

"Of course, of course. That might change soon."

"Good evening. May I take your order?" another waiter waltzed up to the table in the meanwhile. Seeing Bradford in his weather-beaten uniform made him throw a questioning glance at the head waiter. The latter merely rolled his shoulders.

"Feel free to indulge yourself, Mr. Bradford. I'm footing the bill."

Bradford momentarily considering taking that offer up – especially since the holographic menu projected above the table displayed prices way out of range of his pathetic paycheck – but decided against it. He was still an officer. More than that, he was here to talk business.

"Coffee, black," he finally settled on an option. The waiter nodded and left without another word, eager to distance himself from the burly visitor.

Meanwhile, another figure entered the restaurant – a middle-aged woman in a leather jacket and a head full of disheveled, long black hair. Much like with the previous visitor, the head waiter decided to give her the benefit of doubt and not judge her by her appearance. The restaurant wasn't in the position to refuse anyone, anyway.

"Good evening Madame, may I-" the man jerked slightly as the woman walked right past him. "Oh, that one, certainly," he mumbled afterwards.

Bradford's interlocutor, however, immediately waved the newcomer over. "Colonel Durand – please, come join us!"

This was unexpected. The commander and his bodyguard exchanged glances. In the end, Bradford nodded subtly, allowing Annette Durand to sit down on the chair next to him.

"I must apologize for ruining what would have otherwise been a decent attempt at subterfuge," the man chuckled. "May I say, you haven't aged one day since we last met."

The compliment was only partly true. Her face was pretty much the same it was twenty years ago, if a bit pale, but even Bradford tried to avoid looking into her eyes nowadays. However life may have battered him, it was three times as bad for Annette, and it showed.

The colonel eyed the businessman suspiciously, but did not say another word.

"Now then, allow me to introduce myself – my name is F. Denman Williams. I hope it won't be too arrogant to assume you've heard of it."

"Software tycoon, entrepreneur, sole proprietor of Sub-Oceanic Reconnaissance and Extraterrestrial Salvage Operation and 27th richest person in the North American Alliance," Bradford listed what he remembered off the top of his head. "You did sign your invitation."

"And you've done your homework and prepared as best you could. Good, good. Now then, allow me to answer the question of why I've invited you here – I want to buy out your organization." He carefully avoided mentioning it by name – the walls had ears, after all.

"Really?" Bradford narrowed his brows. "Buying our bases and poaching our personnel to dig for Elerium underwater wasn't enough for you, now you want to finish us off?"

"Quite the contrary, Mr. Bradford. I want to preserve it. I'd even say return it to its former glory, but alas, barring another alien invasion, that's beyond my current capabilities. More importantly, I don't need the real estate – I need you. Its people. Its heart and soul."

"I'm afraid you're twenty years too late," Annette spoke up for the first time. "There's hardly anything or anyone left."

The truth hurt, but it was the truth. Twenty years was a long time, and many people they once fought side-by-side with simply moved on. Bradford could not blame them – after all, they had won, and deserved a chance at peace. However, that did not make the isolation he felt any easier. He and Annette were different in many ways, but similar in one – they could not go back to their previous lives. For him, the sense of duty always came first.

"Wrong, Ms. Durand. There are still you two, and quite a few others who would come back if they were needed."

"Hmph," Annette chuckled weakly, "my time has long since passed."

And there were people like Annette, who simply could not fit into the greater society ever again. The revelation of the existence of human psionics caused a moral panic unlike any other in the past few centuries, the gifted ones being almost immediately ostracized or regarded with suspicion at best. Annette was "merely" the most powerful psionic human ever discovered. This power came at a price of being seen as an abomination wherever she went.

"Even if you aren't a field operative anymore, that doesn't mean you should give up on life, Colonel," Williams attempted to cheer her up. "You still possess more than twenty years of valuable experience. Your condition would hardly preclude putting it to use."

Now it was Annette's turn to frown. The man clearly knew too much, and he wasn't being very considerate about it. The brain trauma caused by the alien exploitation of her powers never went away, and even got worse to the point where constant migraines rendered her unfit for field duty.

"What do you know," she hissed, "of being robbed of the only thing you had left? Of the only cause you had in life?"

Amused, Williams chuckled. "Oh believe me, I know," he said before rolling up his sleeve for a bit.

The tattoo could be visible only for a moment, but that was enough to make Bradford instinctively go for where his pistol holster usually was. As for Annette, she remained motionless, but her eyes dangerously flared up with purple.

"Now, I can explain," Williams hastily attempted to stave off an outbreak of violence. "That was twenty years ago. You've won."

"And all this time you've been subverting our assets," Bradford said, drumming his fingers on the table. "You devious sons-of-"

"No, Commander," Williams interrupted him. "EXALT doesn't exist anymore."

"Really?" Annette asked, her tone not promising a peaceful resolution. "And when did that happen?"

"Like I said, twenty years ago. Some of us escaped your raid, but we all explicitly agreed that the time of EXALT was over and went our separate ways. I am not acting on behalf of a dead organization. I am acting on behalf of only myself… and humanity, if you could believe such a thing."

"We don't," Bradford cut him off.

"If it helps, Colonel Durand can check the truthfulness of my statem- urgh," Williams froze in place as Annette instantly took him up on his offer and probed his mind. Moments later, he shook his head and slumped in his seat like a puppet with its strings cut.

"No offense, Colonel," he complained, rubbing his temples, "but you're about as subtle as a tank division."

"He's telling the truth," Annette finally admitted to Bradford, the psionic glow having faded from her eyes. Apparently, Williams did not have to worry about getting his brain fried for a while.

"We may have had slightly – well, alright, very different goals," Williams continued, "but we never intended to put humanity in a worse position. Our experience with the alien invaders made us realize, however, that the means we chose for said goals were… counterproductive, to say the least."

"You don't say," the colonel raised an eyebrow, "and at what point this blinding flash of realization occur?"

"About forty-five minutes before you burned our Toronto headquarters to the ground," Williams admitted, ignoring her sarcasm.

"Better late than never," Bradford chuckled. "I must say, the orange tie should've been a dead giveaway."

"Some old habits die hard," Williams smiled, "but anyway. I've spent the past few years digging through every single one of your mission logs I could get my hands on. Which is to say, all of them. I've S.O.R.E.S.O. do some investigative work as well and I have a rather unfortunate… premonition, let's say. 'Conclusion' would mean that it's a fact, and by God, I don't want it to be one."

After a moment's silence, he continued. "Twenty years ago we've been invaded by a collective of alien species vastly superior than us in nearly all respects. Yet, looking back at it, I can't but help – could it really be called an invasion?"

"You mean sending their ships one by one and rarely, if ever attacking more than location at a time?" Bradford asked. "We have a credible explanation for that. It's also classified."

"Yes, the one that they were looking to 'uplift' us for whatever came ahead. Or, in other words, were trying to awake our latent psionic potential," Williams stated, irritating Bradford even more with this open flaunting of information. "Don't you, however, think that they could have just as easily launched a full invasion, subjugated the planet and openly conducted whatever nasty business they intended? With their battleships, it could have been easy. Instead, they always tried to subvert and infiltrate, resorting to open conflict only with what can be described as a token show of force."

"They were afraid of something," Annette suddenly spoke up. "I remember. From the Temple ship. We… myself, Matthew, the Tariqs – kept communicating with Zhang to the last. He showed us… images. I didn't know what to make of them back then, I still don't know now. I thought they were afraid of us, or of failing in their task, but I was never sure."

"What if they were afraid of something else?" Bradford attempted to connect the obvious dots. "The Temple ship nearly turned into a black hole. They were prepared to destroy us all if they hadn't gotten what they came here for. And they practically scrambled to abandon Mars and leave the system soon after."

"This is all conjecture, of course," Williams continued, "but take a look at this."

The two veterans focused their attention on the couple of printouts passed to them.

"SS _Azure Star_, cruise ship under the Euro-Syndicate flag, lost with all hands and passengers in undetermined circumstances in Gulf of Mexico, February 24th, 2031," Annette read one out of dozens of entries on the list. "Maritime accidents happen. How is this relevant?"

"Look closer, Annette," Bradford pointed out. "No cause of sinking, all in areas deep enough to preclude investigation, no survivors, all taking place in the last few years. A single case is an accident, a string is a pattern."

"Exactly," Williams nodded. "So far there's nothing but theories. Freak storms, magnetic anomalies, acts of terrorism by the Cult of Sirius or the Inquisitors. And there are just as many contradictions as there are theories."

"You have the resources of the entire S.O.R.E.S.O. at your disposal. Haven't you found anything?"

"S.O.R.E.S.O. is a deep-water salvage operation, not a military organization, I'm afraid. I've probed into the matter, but we always run either into legal or technical hurdles. I am also wary of risking unarmed civilian personnel to what might be alien threat."

"I wouldn't take you for one to place value on human life," Bradford snorted.

Williams looked down, his voice tinged with sadness. "I've learned the value of that the hard way over the years. They might have been your enemies, but I personally knew almost all of the operatives who fell in combat against you. It was a senseless waste of life. I'd like to think my conscience will not let me cause another."

"If you expect pity, you're not going to-" Bradford was interrupted by his retort by the feeling of Annette's hand on his shoulder.

"Commander, let it go. It's unbecoming to speak ill of the dead," she said, looking him straight in the eye.

Involuntarily, Bradford let out a smirk, partly of amusement and partly out of pride. In a world half empty it was a remarkable sight how, despite the general misery that made up most of her life, Annette still found the time and willpower to move on from the vengeful, bloodthirsty force of nature she was when she first joined the fight. It counted even for more considering how the subject of the conversation was an organization entirely responsible for her misfortune.

In contrast, Bradford had spent these years on becoming increasingly jaded and bitter. _How the mighty have fallen_, he thought. The Commander would certainly not approve, were he still around.

"So, where do we come in?" Bradford focused his attention back on the former EXALT agent, who was all too happy to ignore his little faux pas. "We've been discarded like trash by the powers that be. Need I remind you, right after our victory they patted us on the back, then locked us out of our own base while they took everything not nailed to the floor. Our resources, our research, our staff, our equipment, even my sweater!"

Williams blinked. One of these was not like the other.

"I really liked that sweater. It was with me throughout the whole war, dammit," Bradford finished, relieved at finally having had the chance to vent two decades' worth of frustration.

"Well," the entrepreneur started, "I can't really say if I'll be able to help you with that sweater, but here's the thing – the UN, with the world being in fantastic shape and all, is just itching for an excuse to shut you down for good. Whatever pittance they spend on maintaining that last base right now is too much for them."

"Tell us something we don't know," Annette scoffed.

Williams continued. "Like I said at the very start, I want to buy out the whole organization. The brand name, if you will. It would become a corporation. Obviously, I can't promise you funding of the entire Council, but what I can spare will be enough to restore your base and even fund a decent force of both military and scientific staff, the former being legally allowed to deploy in any of the Council's member nations."

"Okay, but what about the part where the Council actually agrees to sell? That would be admitting that they let us become mercenaries," Bradford voiced another complaint. "Not to mention that you'd be running this operation at a loss. With all due respect, I don't believe in altruism. Not anymore."

"Do you think that's really an issue to a world where three out of sixteen remaining world governments are megacorporate entities?" Williams chuckled. "But, there is a catch. The contract I have drafted and which has the Council's tentative approval contains a reactivation clause. When the sale goes through, you will become a part of the S.O.R.E.S.O. However, if the new threat is confirmed, you will be placed under government control and funding once again, under your real name, for the duration of the crisis. See, that way I can't really abuse you for my own nefarious ends."

"Hm," Bradford scratched his chin. "I… well. You've put a lot of thought into this, Mr. Williams. As outlandish your claims might sound, I have to agree that it's either this or retirement. However, given your own history, I have a condition of my own: no interference into how the organization is run."

"Of course," Williams nodded. "I never intended to, other than sending an audit team every now and then to make sure the money isn't being spent on hookers and blow."

The unexpectedly crude joke actually made both Bradford and Annette crack up for once.

"In that case, dare I assume I have your consent to the contract? Because that's quite possibly the last thing keeping this deal from becoming reality," Williams stretched his hand out to Bradford.

Despite how sound said deal sounded in theory, Bradford still allowed himself a moment of doubt. He never considered himself to be capable of leading the world's finest fighting force, but alas, the Commander had long since retired. Briefly, he lamented not even being able to ask for advice from Dr. Vahlen or Dr. Shen – the former having moved on to greener pastures and the latter having passed away.

At least he still had Annette. Obviously, their relationship was strictly professional, but during these troubled years he and the veteran colonel with nowhere else to go had come to rely on and trust each other's judgment.

Noticing his questioning glance, Annette nodded. That was good enough for him to accept Williams' handshake.

"For all our sakes, I hope this works out like you've outlined it, Mr. Williams," he said after the deed was done and the two returned to their seats. "We live in a world too tired to be aware and too cold to care even about its own survival."

"There's no telling what horrors await," Annette added solemnly.

"But at the very least, we're now on the same side," Williams noted. "The history of mankind is rife with struggles, but one thing is certain – our greatest enemy was always within. Obviously, I don't expect you to trust your former bitter enemy straight away, but I do hope we can learn to put aside our differences – to learn from our own example - and work together."

"Wise words, _monsieur_ Williams," Annette admitted. "I only wish we could have all heard them twenty years ago."

"Hindsight is often a bitter kind of wisdom," the entrepreneur sighed in agreement.

"Speaking of wisdom, Mr. Williams, I'm afraid you need more of it when picking restaurants," Bradford suddenly spoke up.

"How so?"

Bradford glared accusingly at their waiter, who gulped and tried to blend in with the wall. "It's been half an hour and they still haven't brought me my coffee."

Even two decades later, the former central officer still got _very_ disappointed when things weren't done by the numbers.

* * *

**A/N:** With Firaxis stating outright that XCOM2 takes place in an alternate timeline, I had this spur-of-the-moment idea to depict the timeline where we won, at the same date. Where things are different, but so too they stay the same, where there is wanton canon welding and something nasty in the sea, and where I can't even mention the titular organization by name because of a single dash in it. It's still technically "finished", but I might tie it into Blindsided, whenever I get to rewriting that disaster.


End file.
